Bubba's Diner-"Home Of the 5 cent Coffee.

The clatter of dishes and tonguesscrambled like my eggs surrounds me.

The old vinyl stools in chrome and scarlet poses, rise in a food speckled formation, each covered cushion cracked from the spreadof weary derierres,

The waitress, a former 1962 barbie doll,has a beehive, hairdo heavily sprayed and well behaved.no wisps of hair to pester her forehead. Her fading beauty revealedin a weary smile,as she queries,"More coffee, sir."

I nod and she refillsmy adrenaline level.while overly tattooedbut skilled short order chefsdance nimbly in the rectangle window.

In greasy, once white aprons, they flip pancakes off,tan sausages and roach the burnt hash brown.

This old train car holds a few ghosts,flitting behind methey were on their way to forever,but thier exit was derailed.

Now it squats by a highwaythat leads to anytown U.S.A.

Each diner in this dinertakes a momentary pausefrom their long journiesto destinations unknown.

They chew the fat,peruse the news, and stick chewing gum mementos under the peeling linoleum tabletops.

I rise to pay my check,dropping a couple of dead presidentsfrom my capital,and duck out into the sleeting rain,with a belly full of grub,and a nostalgic noseful of yesterdays revisited.